


Late Night Phone Calls

by morganya



Category: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-22
Updated: 2006-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/morganya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just a bad night all around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Night Phone Calls

**Author's Note:**

> Medical melodrama with possibly graphic imagery. I apologize profusely for any glaring inaccuracies of medical procedure.

  
Ted keeps having the same dream, waking up and going back to sleep and falling into it again, like he's walking in and out of the same room over and over. He dreams of growing and then shrinking, whacking his head against the ceiling and then being small as Alice in Wonderland within seconds. The perspective shift's making him dizzy and the ceiling feels like it's coming down around him, boards cracking over his shoulders, shooting back towards the floor with dust pouring around his feet.

He opens his eyes, sweaty and still dizzy, his back aching. He can't see the clock.

He thinks about trying to go back to sleep one more time, but he doesn't want to push his luck. He fumbles for the light, keeping his eyes shut.

He doesn't feel right. It's not weird dreams and it's not sleep deprivation, he just doesn't feel right. He should make a list of possible suspects and possible remedies, but he doesn't know what time it is and it seems like too much effort.

Something on his bedside table buzzes. He cracks an eye open and reaches for his glasses, wincing at the light; his cell phone is vibrating away on the table. He wonders if he should just let it be, but he's awake anyway and the buzzing is irritating him so he snatches it up and answers, voice still thick and raspy. "Yeah."

"What the hell?" Thom says. "I thought you'd be asleep. I was just gonna leave a message."

"Hi," Ted says. "What the hell time is it?" The room feels abnormally cold to him; he wonders if the furnace is on the fritz.

"It's two thirty. Are you at home?"

"No, I'm in Miami," Ted snaps. He wonders if Thom's drunk; a couple of cocktails and what little common sense he has goes out the window. "This better be good, Thom."

"What was the number of that guy who ran the herb garden place?"

"What was the _what_?"

"The _herb garden_," Thom explains patiently. Over the line, Ted hears a key turn in a lock, a dog barking, Thom just getting home. "I figured you'd know it."

He is drunk, Ted decides, or buzzed, or something. Ted doesn't feel like laughing it off right now. "And that's nowhere near good enough. I'm off the clock, Thom."

"This is why you should put your phone on vibrate," Thom says, not even fazed. "Or, like, turn it off."

"It _was_ on vibrate," Ted says, even he shouldn't say anything that would prolong the conversation. His back aches, too much lying in one position, and he rolls over, but does it too fast and the ache expands and contracts violently, a hot sharp shock through his side that makes him choke.

"Hey," Thom says, a little softer. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. Pulled a muscle," Ted says when he gets his breath back.

"_Really_?" Thom sounds a little too interested. "Are you doing something -"

"Thom -" Ted shuts his eyes. He doesn't have the patience for this right now, and he feels sick, and he doesn't want to deal with anything. "Try to wait until after dawn next time you want to ask me a stupid question, all right, Thom?"

"Ah'm not makin' any promises," Thom says cheerfully.

"_Goodbye_, Thom," Ted says, and hangs up. He turns the phone off and tries to find a comfortable position, but everything still hurts and it seems to be getting worse, developing its own repertoire, ache to throb to stab to ache to throb and over again.

He's going to throw up. He's going to throw up very, very soon.

He kicks the blankets off and starts for the door, but moving just makes everything hurt more, a razor-thin sliver of nerve boring into his side as he brings his feet down. It's slowing him down, forcing him into an eighty-year-old shuffle, holding his stomach with one hand. He's already gagging.

He throws up in the wastebasket by the door, dropping to his knees and choking for air. He manages to get his glasses off and clenches them tight in his fist, running his thumb over the frames, a new sensation, a distraction. His hair is sticking to his neck, sweat feeling cold on his skin.

He supposes that this isn't something that's planning to go away.

The cell phone is the closest thing to him. He pushes the wastebasket out into the hall (clean it up later, he'll just clean it up later), forces himself to stand up and shuffle back towards the bedside table, breathing through his teeth, trying to time his steps around the pain, preparing himself for each new combination of throb and ache as best he can..

He's been to hospitals, he thinks, he's taken people to hospitals, years of movies and TV hospital dramas, it shouldn't be a big deal, he thinks.

For some stupid reason he almost hopes he's faking it. Spend two hours in the emergency room, ratchet his insurance premiums up and go home with an aspirin. Some asshole at the _Post_ would call him a hypochondriac or a junkie and everyone would have a big laugh about it and then forget it.

It hurts so much that it's hard to breathe.

He makes it to the bed, grabs the phone and fumbles to turn it back on. He thinks he should at least try to keep standing up, maintain his dignity, but no one's watching and he really wants to lie down, so he doesn't bother..

Lying on the bed, on his side, trying not to throw up on his bedspread, he dials 911. Someone picks up on the first ring, a crisp Brooklyn voice, sounding improbably young.

"911."

"Hello," he says, eyes closed and phone tucked under his ear, "I think I'd like an ambulance."

Like ordering a pizza.

"What's the nature of your emergency?"

"I don't _know_," Ted says. His stomach wrenches. Little jagged sparks are shooting through his side. "Something - fuck, I'm sorry - something just started, I'm not sure what."

"Are you in pain?"

He has the thought of saying _I don't know, let me just check on that_, or laughing, or doing something inappropriate. Sweat's running into his eyes.

"Yeah," he says. "Yes, yeah."

"Can you tell me the nature -"

"My stomach hurts. And my back. Thereabouts."

"Is the back pain centered around your shoulders, or lower, like around your waist?"

"Waist," Ted says through his teeth. He gags, swallowing something vile before it can come up. "Sorry."

"Not a problem. We'll get someone right out there to get you to St. Vincent's, I've got your address. What apartment number are you in?"

He gives the number, gasps out a thank you and hangs up. He takes his glasses off and swipes at his face with the back of his wrist. He's dealing with things, things are getting done, he's fine.

He realizes that his apartment door is locked.

It's the thing about living in New York, it's the thing about living anywhere. You can't just leave doors open. He wonders if paramedics know how to pick locks, if they carry battering rams. If this turns out to be nothing, and they break down his door, he'll be leaving the whole of his apartment open for God knows who.

He's going to have to get up and go unlock the fucking door.

He puts his glasses back on and slides off the bed, standing up as straight as he can manage. He does it too fast. He clamps one hand over his mouth, lurches out towards the hall and throws up.

He keeps thinking of everyone he's ever taken to the hospital, everyone he's been to see in the hospital, everyone he knows who's died. He spits into the wastebasket and pulls himself up, bracing one hand against the wall. He's still holding his cell phone.

He flips it open as he shuffles towards the door, punching buttons at random until he finally gets to the Calls Received menu and hits Thom's number.

No one picks up and he's mumbling, "C'mon, _c'mon_," and on the sixth ring Thom picks up and says, "Hello."

"Hi," Ted says. He's halfway to the front door, saying to himself, _one after the other_. "It's me."

"I _knew_ you'd change your mind," Thom says triumphantly. "Did ya -"

"I kind of think I'm going to the hospital, Thom."

Thom says nothing. Ted has a horrible feeling he's lost the connection.

"_Hello_?" Ted says, too loudly. Three quarters of the way to the door.

"I mean, Ted, what - what do you mean, you're going to the hospital?"

"I mean I called an ambulance," Ted says. "I'm unlocking the door, I'm trying to - goddamnit - so they don't have to bust it down on me."

"Honey," Thom says, suddenly calm and stone-cold sober, the old familiar practical Thom, "Ted, slow down. What's the matter?"

"Something's wrong with me," Ted says. "I don't know, Thom, it just hurts, it won't stop. I called someone, they're taking me to St. Vincent's. I think it was St. Vincent's. I don't really - _God._"

"You need me to come over there? Call anyone for you?"

"No, I called someone." He gets to the door, presses his forehead to the wood in relief and starts groping for the locks with one hand. "Thom, my grandfather, when he - it wasn't -"

"Nothing's going to happen to you," Thom says. "It's going to be okay, you're just a little scared right now."

"I'm not scared," Ted protests. The door's unlocked, and he's shaking and covered in sweat. He slumps onto the floor.

"Okay, Ted, fine, you're not scared. Do you want me to -"

"I don't want you to hang up."

"I've got the phone welded to my head. Where are you?"

"Front hall," he says with his eyes shut. "I got the door."

"Good. What do you want to talk about, Ted?"

"Thom, I just -"

"Do you feel too lousy for that?"

"I can't tell."

"Want me to just talk to you?"

"Yeah."

Thom's good at talking. He tells Ted about going to summer camp when he was nine, about trying to practice archery but getting so bored that he started just shooting arrows at the ground, about Tang and Shasta cola and overcooked chicken at dinner. Every so often Thom says, "Hey, still there?" and Ted mumbles into the phone and Thom says, "Okay," and keeps going.

Ted hears footsteps outside the door, muffled conversation. He says, in the middle of Thom's monologue, "I think they're here."

"Okay," Thom says. "I'll call David or someone, we'll all come see you at wherever it is. It's going to be okay."

Someone knocks on the door. Ted hisses and raises his head. Something kicks in, some vague memory of what he needs to do. "I need to let them in."

"No, you don't," Thom says sharply. "Ted, stay there. Don't move, understand?"

He's already hauling himself up with shaky arms. "Two seconds," he says.

"Ted, don't be stupid -"

He's halfway off the floor and he might as well follow through. He grabs the doorknob and tries to straighten up.

Something flashes red behind his eyes, and shards and shrapnel zig-zag through his back and his gut, every nerve ending he has gone raw and twitching.

He's screaming, and Thom is screaming, and he drops the phone onto the floor. It makes a faint electronic protest and the light goes off. Ted jerks the door open, pitching forward, too much momentum, falling forward into someone's outstretched hands.

He wakes up on the floor because they're shining a light in his eye. They ask him who the President is and he says, "That fucking jackass," which gets a laugh, and then someone's taking his blood pressure and there's more questions that he doesn't answer very well, and they're strapping him onto something and lifting him onto something else, talking the whole time even though he still feels like he's got a stomach full of shrapnel and it's hard to listen.

They've taken his glasses away, so he can't even tell what these people look like, other than blurs wearing uniforms.

"Could I please get something for the -"

"We're taking you to the hospital now."

He shuts his eyes and lets it happen. He's being lifted up and then the ceiling is rushing by, into the elevator and out on the street, into the back of what must be an ambulance, and they're driving over potholes and he's trying not to puke on any expensive equipment.

The one by his side - Blur Number One - keeps telling him that he's stable, he's got nothing to worry about, and he keeps trying to ask what it is, what's happening, but nobody's giving him an answer.

He lets it all happen.

They wheel him into what must be the emergency room, and there's a brief flurry of activity over him, more questions and another blood pressure cuff and then a needle in his arm and then out of it, and then someone's pressing on his side, _hard_, and he manages not to scream but does manage to throw up over the side of the gurney, splattering onto the floor and a good part of someone's leg, and someone says, "Well, guess you found the hot spot."

*****

"Kidney infection," one of the doctors informs him triumphantly.

They've gotten him a room, a private one, perk of celebrity, and he's wearing a ridiculous blue johnny. He's shown every part of his body to complete strangers, had strange latex-coated fingers in every possible place, fluids drained and taken away, needles and drips stuck into his veins. He'd be feeling much more humiliated if they hadn't mercifully pumped him full of Demerol.

"What?" Ted says.

"Kidney infection," she says again. "Acute pyelonephritis." She says the word like it's a rich dessert, grinning. "Very rare in men. It's an exciting thing for us to catch."

"Glad I could help."

She keeps grinning. She looks like she just won a contest. "We'll keep you in here for a few days, see if there's anything lurking around that could have contributed to it. Everything should be fine if the antibiotics are doing their job, unless you're resistant! You're not resistant, are you?"

_Go away,_ Ted thinks. He smiles druggedly at her.

"Well, I'll see you in the morning. Ring the buzzer if you need anything, 'kay?" She trots off, chuckling to herself.

Ted takes his glasses off, after checking to see which arm's got the tubes in it, and shuts his eyes. He feels drug-hazy, artificially disconnected. It takes some getting used to.

"Hi," Thom says from somewhere above him.

Ted cracks an eye open and then puts his glasses back on. Thom looks like shit. His hair is in his face, tangled curls falling over puffy eyes. It looks like he's wearing pajama pants.

"Hey," Ted says. "I - hey."

Thom leans over, touching his arm carefully, resting one hand on his shoulder. "How're you feeling?"

"Frankly, I'm high as a kite," Ted says. "They shot me up with something. It's great. How'd you get here?"

"In the car, Ted."

"Well, obviously. But how'd you know - sit down."

Thom lets him go and pulls a chair up to the bed. "You told me you'd be here. Remember? I was shocked I could even, like, get it together enough to store the name."

"I have no clue what you're talking about."

"Well, you were pretty out of it when you told me." Thom smoothes the bedcover with two hands. "You've got a lot of stuff -"

"I look like shit. I know. How long have you been here? Or is it just visiting hours and no one's told me?"

Thom smiles. "I don't know. I got here - I guess they were still working on you or something, because no one knew what was going on. And then it took forever to talk them into letting me come in here. You'd think it'd be easier."

"Celebrity," Ted says. "Everything's easy with celebrity."

Thom touches his hand carefully. "Do you know what happened?"

"What happened, apparently, is I have a kidney infection," Ted says. "I mean - a _kidney infection_, Thom. I thought men didn't get kidney infections. They said -"

"Well, I've always said you were a woman, Ted."

"Yeah. Thanks for reminding me. This is - You know, I threw up on a doctor."

Thom bursts out laughing.

"It's _not funny_," Ted says, but he's starting to laugh too, and it hurts. "Ow - Thom, c'mon, it -"

"Sorry." Thom composes himself. "But you're going to be okay, right? They're not going to have to operate or anything?"

"Just a bunch of antibiotics," Ted says. "I just got a veiled warning about being resistant. I don't think I'm resistant. I'm just going to have to stay here and have miserable hospital food for a few days. I'm going to lose my mind."

"We'll all come see you."

"Bring takeout."

Thom shrugs. He looks like he's swallowing a yawn.

"You should get some sleep," Ted says. "This is so sweet of you, but you didn't need to come -"

"I figured I did. To apologize. For calling, and waking you up, and bugging you."

"I was awake anyway. And I was already out of it. This was totally different from all the other times you bug me."

"I just thought, y'know -" Thom shrugs. "I was thinking, that it was just gonna be the last time, you know? That the last time I ever, you know, ever said anything to you was going to be that, me calling about stupid shit when you were sick, and I just didn't want -" He leans back. "Fuck. I'm going to cry."

"Oh," Ted says softly. He gropes for Thom's hand. "Thom, don't."

He's always been terrible with people crying, he never knows what to do. Thom's shoulders are shaking and his face, half-hidden behind his hair, is dark red and crumpled. He pats Thom's hand and when that doesn't seem like enough, reaches for his shoulder and pats that. That doesn't seem like enough either.

"Here," he says, and shifts over, trying to be careful, but he still feels the line of the IV tug.

"Careful," Thom says sharply, voice choked, starting out of the chair. His face is streaked with tears. He grabs Ted's right shoulder and holds on tight, staring fixedly at the IV. "Please don't -"

"It's okay. I'm okay," Ted says.

Thom sighs. Ted reaches up with his good hand and pushes the hair out of Thom's face.

"You are _impossible_," he says softly.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Thom sniffs and swipes at his face with the back of his hand. "That's what I hear." He clears his throat. "You need anything from your apartment, clothes, something?"

"I think I left the door unlocked. I'm sure about fifteen hobos are living there now."

"I'll swing by and check."

"Thanks." His entire body suddenly feels like it's made of lead.

"Get some rest," Thom says quietly. He starts to pull away. "I'll come back later."

"Two more seconds," Ted says.

"Ted, you are beyond stoned."

"I'm the sick guy and I say two more seconds," Ted says. "You know I'd have freaked out even worse if you hadn't been there. With that weird story about summer camp you told me."

"Yeah, but that -"

"No matter how much of a pain in the ass -" He's starting to slur. He wills himself to stay awake. "I know you're always there."

Thom looks down at him. Finally he smoothes Ted's forehead with two fingers. "Yeah. I always am."

"Still impossible, though," he mumbles.

"Your two seconds are up," Thom says. He doesn't stop smoothing Ted's forehead. "Get some sleep. Get better."

"I want two more seconds."

"Ted -"

"C'mon."

"I don't know, Ted, it's a pretty big chunk out of my day." Thom pulls the chair up to the bed again. "Want me to talk to you?"

"Just want you to be here."

"I can do that." Thom takes his hand. "I can do that."


End file.
